MILE HIGH DAWG WHIRLING CHICKEN HEADS by Murray Hurricane Last Fall I decided to take a little siesta after finishing up my series of paintings on the life of William Shatner. I wanted to get as far away from art as I could, so I decided to head over to Denver for a weekend. I'd actually planned for a while to get into town that weekend, since I had managed to get some tickets to the Browns-Broncos game on Monday night. But before I get into the game itself, first I need to give a little background. I hate the Denver Broncos. Check that. I despise the Denver Broncos. In my most humble opinion, they are the most reprehensible bunch of clods that ever suited up in helmets and shoulder pads. Why do I feel this way? I was born and raised in Tooele, Utah. As a native Utahn, we had no local NFL team to cheer for, though that would have been news to the folks at NBC. You see, since the Broncos were the closest team in our region, we got the distinct opportunity to watch every last one of their games, every weekend of the season. Thanks a bunch. Truth is, I already had a home team, courtesy of my mother. A native of Cleveland herself, my home team growing up was the Browns, led in their modern heyday by Kevin Mack, Webster Slaughter, a sidearm QB named Bernie, and the infamous Dawg defense. Hundreds of fans would cram into the far end of the stadium on a rack of bleachers dubbed the Dawg Pound and cheer their team through an insane chill delivered courtesy of Lake Erie. I'll never forget some of those days in the late 1980's, watching the Browns battle the other big guns in the AFC Central Division in the middle of snowstorms. The image of Don Strock braving a snowstorm to fire an 11th hour bullet into the waiting arms of Webster Slaughter to catapult the Browns into the playoffs is burned into my memory. That was one of the few games that was actually televised out this direction. Those well-versed in NFL playoff lore will remember that the Browns went to the AFC Championship three times in the late 80's, and failed to make it to the Super Bowl each time. All three losses were at the hands of the Denver Broncos. I used to collect photos of linebackers crunching John Elway. When I couldn't find them in Sports Illustrated, I drew the images myself. If you mentioned "The Drive" or "The Fumble" anywhere near me in those days, I'd be in a bad mood for the next 48 hours. I hate the Denver Broncos. So when I strode into Mile High Stadium that Monday evening, I wasn't alone. I was going on behalf of my mother, my family, and the entire community of Cleveland, Ohio, hoping to see at least seven Denver players break limbs. It didn't matter that none of the players I'd be watching were even in the league when the Broncos broke our hearts fifteen years earlier. Vengeance served cold was still vengeance to me. My trip to Denver also had the distinction of being my very first visit to an NFL game. The Browns got killed that night. I've since managed to blot out most of the memory. All I recall is thousands of screaming fans raving as the Broncos took a 21-0 lead before the end of the first quarter. I remember an annoying song by DMX being played every time the Broncos kicked off, which was often. I remember some guy in my section who refused to wear a shirt, but never bothered to write anything constructive on his chest, either. I remember the only saving grace of the evening doing their cheer routines about two hundred feet away. When the game finally ended, only shirtless guy and I remained in our seats, mired in thought. Even though he was a Denver fan, shirtless guy looked bummed, and I surmised that he'd actually come to audition for a job at Abercrombie and Fitch, and was disappointed that no one had recruited him. I myself actually was bummed about the game, and how after loving football for nearly twenty years, I had come this far to see a defeat this humiliating. It turned out I had nothing to fear from the Denver fans. They had only pity for me. Maybe I should have taken up basketball. I hate the Denver Broncos.